Sacrament

'It's intact,' Rosa said. 'I'm not going to die on you, don't worry. I'll hold on till I see Rukenau.'

'Where's the atlas?' Frannie wanted to know.

'On the floor behind you,' Will told her. She reached round and picked

it up. 'Have you considered that Rukenau may be dead?' Will said to Rosa.

'He had no plans to die,' Rosa replied.

'He might have done it anyway.'

'Then I'll find his grave and lie down with him,' she said. 'And maybe his dust will forgive mine.'

Frannie had found the Western Isles in the atlas, and now began to recite their names, starting with the Outer Hebrides. 'Lewis, Harris, North Uist, South Uist, Barra, Benbecula...' Then on to the Inner, 'Mull, Coll, Tiree, Islay, Skye...' Rosa knew none of them. There were some, Frannie pointed out, that were too small to be named in the atlas; maybe it was one of them. When they reached Oban they'd get a more detailed map, and try again. Rosa wasn't very optimistic. She'd never been very good remembering names, she said. That had always been Steep's forte. She'd been good with faces, however, whereas he

'Let's not talk about him,' Frannie said, and Rosa fell silent.

So on they went. Through the Lake District to the Scottish border, and, on, as the afternoon dwindled, past the shipyards of Clydebank, alongside Loch Lomond and on through Luss and Crianlarich up to Tyndrum. There was for Will an almost sublime moment a few miles short of Oban when the wind brought the smell of the sea his way. Some forty years on the planet, and the chill scent of sharp salt still moved him, bringing back childhood dreams of the faraway. He had long ago made these dreams a reality, of course; seen more of the world than most. But the promise of sea and horizon still caught at his heart, and tonight, with the last of the light sinking west, he knew why. They were the masks of something far more profound, those dreams of perfect islands where perfect love might be found. Was it any wonder his spirits rose as the road brought them down through the steep town to the harbour? Here, for the first time, he felt as if the physical world was in step with its deeper significance, the forms of his yearning made concrete. Here was the busy quayside from which they would depart, here was the Sound of Mull, its unwelcoming waters leading the eye out towards the sea. What lay across those waters, far from the comfort of this little harbour, was not just an island; it was the possibility that his spirit's voyage would find completion; where he would know, perhaps, why God had seeded him with yearning.

CHAPTER II

He had expected Oban to be just a bland little ferry port, but it surprised him. Though night had fallen by the time they found their way down to the quay, both town and harbour were still abuzz: the last of the summer's tourists window-shopping, or out to drink or dine; a gang of youths playing football on the Esplanade; a small flotilla of fishing boats heading out on the night tide.

There was a ferry leaving as they arrived at the dock, all alive with lights. Will parked the car beside the ticket office, which was in the process of closing up for the night. A somewhat severe-looking woman told Will that the next sailing would be at seven the following morning, and that no, he didn't need to book passage.

'You can get aboard at six,' the woman said.

'With the car?'

'Aye, you can take your vehicle. But the morning boat's only for the Inner islands. Which were you headin' for?'

Will told her he hadn't yet made up his mind. She gave him a small booklet of timetables and fares, and along with it a glossy brochure describing the various islands the Caledonian MacBrayne ferries visited. Then she said again that the first sailing was at seven sharp the following morning, and pulled the ticket window shutter down.

Will returned to the car with the brochures and the information, only to find the vehicle empty. Frannie he discovered sitting on the harbour wall, watching the departing fishing boats. Rosa, she informed him, had taken herself off walking, refusing Frannie's offer of accompaniment.

'Where did she go?' Will asked.

Frannie pointed to the distant harbour wall, which jutted out into the Sound.

'I suppose it's stupid to worry about her,' Will said, 'I mean, I'm sure she can look after herself. Still...' He returned his gaze to Frannie, who was staring down into the dark waters lapping against the wall seven or eight feet below. 'You look deep in thought,' he remarked.

'Not really,' she said, almost coyly, as though she were a little embarrassed to admit the fact.

'Tell me.'

'Well, I was just thinking about a sermon, of all things.'

'A sermon?'

'Yes. We had a visiting vicar at St Luke's three Sundays ago. He was pretty good, actually. He talked about ... what was the phrase he had? ... doing holy work in a secular world.' She glanced up at Will. 'That's what this trip feels like; at least to me. It's as though we were on a pilgrimage. Does that sound daft?'

'You've sounded dafter.'

She smiled, still looking at the water. 'I don't mind,' she said. 'I've been sensible for far too long.' She looked at him again, her meditative mood passed. 'You know what?' she said. 'I'm starved.'

'Should we try and check into a hotel?'

'No,' she said. 'I vote we just eat and then sleep in the car. What time does the ferry depart?'

'Seven o'clock sharp,' Will said. Then, with a fatalistic shrug, 'Of course we're not sure if it's even going where we need it to go.'

'I say we go anyway,' Frannie said. 'Go and never come back.'

'Don't pilgrims usually return home again?'

'Only if there's something to go home for.'

They walked along the Esplanade looking for somewhere to eat, and as they walked Frannie said: 'Rosa doesn't think you can be trusted.'

'Why the hell not?'

'Because all you care about is Steep. Or you and Steep.'

'When did she say this?'

'When I was bandaging her up.'

'She doesn't know what's she's talking about,' Will said.

They walked in a silence for a little distance, past a couple of lovers who were leaning against the harbour wall, whispering and kissing.

'Are you going to tell me what happened in the house?' Frannie finally said.

'Isn't it pretty obvious? I tried to kill him.'

'But you didn't do it?'

'As I said, I tried. Then he grabbed hold of the knife, and ... and I got a little glimpse of what I think he was before he became Jacob Steep.'

'And what's that?'

'It's what Simeon painted. The thing that built the Domus Mundi for Rukenau. A Nilotic.'

'Do you think Rosa's one as well?'

'Who knows? I'm just trying to put the pieces together. What do we know? Well, we know Rukenau was some kind of mystic. And I'm assuming he found these creatures-'

-on the Nile?'

'That's all the word means, as far as I know. It doesn't have any mystical significance.'

'Then what? You think they literally built a house?'

'Don't you?'

'Not necessarily,' Frannie said. 'A church can be stones and a spire, but it can also be the middle of a field, or the bank of a river. Any place people gather to worship God.'

It was plain she'd given the matter considerable thought, and Will liked her observations. 'So the Domus Mundi could be...' he struggled for the words to catch the idea '... a place where the world gathers?'

'It doesn't make much sense when you put it like that.'

'If nothing else,' Will said, 'it reminds me not to be so damn literal. What's all this about? It's not about walls and roofs. It's about ...' Again, he struggled for the words. But this time he had them; from Bethlynn, of all people. 'Working change and inducing visions.'

'And you think that's what Steep's trying to do?'

'In his screwed up way, yes, I think it is.'

'Do you feel sorry for him?'

'Is that what Rosa told you?'